sparklebutch

Strange fun adventures and fantasy concepts,
Bright coloured mod boys and tweed Jazzy poets,
Howard and Vincey all tied up with strings
These are a few of my favourite things

Fishmen in tutus and coconuts singing,
Goth girls and Goth boys, bananas with things in,
Saturn and bright Moon exchanging their rings*,
These are a few of my favourite things

When the fen bite, when Real Life's shite, when I'm feeling sad
I think of the Boosh and how Mighty they are, and then I don't feel so bad!

[*yes, I know it's not in canon.... yet]
[Vague blame:

accio_arse]

The next one is unrelated, it's a personal bit I wrote this morning, ( after I got an email: )

=====

ETA - [estimated time of arrival of my brain, about five minutes after the post is made]:

( Also there is art. Well, macros, it's almost the same. )

I never studied poetry; I just wrote it. Yesterday I sat with

ceruleancat and she gave me proper meters and I doodled of them.

( Results: )
And then I went to sleep.

( This one is completely unrelated )

Some time ago

calime33 prompted me with "scent". Here's the longest "poem" (=story in a funny form) I ever wrote. Even has chapters!

( But they're short. )

[Poll #980468]

My hair is a wide variety
Of shiny colours
From reddish bronze to golden hues of sunlight
All adorning a warm deep chestnut shade -

My hair is brown.

My writing, purple.

( eta )

In dreams she spoke to me, she said,
Mortal, kneel upon the bed;
Glory to the Goddess King.
I did as asked. I cannot win.

I suffer, shudder through the night,
This lost cause battle, defeated fight,
The heat of her cold eyes on me.
These vicious eyes I cannot see.

I kneel and wait for her, in dreams,
In quiet nights, familiar themes;
This Goddess whom I cannot see,
She's just beyond, she'll come one day, she'll come some day, she'll come to me.

A beautiful poem: He Asked about the Quality...

Do look around the rest of the site. There is much pretty there.

Death wears white,
pristine,
untouched

Needs to wash it every night;
from the spots of blood, from the dirt of graves, from a thousand hands grasping onto his robe in a plea -
let us live.

Death rides a white horse,
"Like bone?" - No, like a horse's short hair over a horse's thick muscles and flesh, rippling as it gallops,
travels across the land
and stops to eat fresh green grass near a cold spring hidden in vegetation.

Death has no scythe, sword,
machine gun,
only his bony finger,
graceful, elegant,
points.

Inspired by a line from

silvercobwebs

Title: There Are Moments

Sometimes when I'm naked and I think of you,
I want to call you up but I
don't have your number.
Sometimes when the night is cold and
no one else is in the house,
empty dark rooms stretch around me and
the trees whisper and wrestle each other outside,
I wonder where you went, and where you are right now.

Sometimes loneliness is not just for someone to talk to,
for I have friends and they are many, and they are good.
Sometimes it's not just for human touch.
Sometimes it's the magic I miss;
your touch on my hand was warm and inviting,
electricity in the air and candlelight in your eyes.

There are moments -
there are moments, I say -
some times I can almost hear you whispering right there,
or see you from the corner of my -
some times, I say, I think you're almost there.

An Ode To The Weather
Inspir'd by

calime33

Hell is an armpit in summer,
Odourous and damp as hell;
Within its depths the millions humm'r
From the Heavens they all fell.

Countless people in its sweat they swim,
And in the hairs they're caught.
But Satan hums a cheerful theme
As loudly as he ought.

Our Feline Poetry
lacks in its lyricism.

"For I am kitten
tiny kitten
fuzzy kitten
of love.
With the tiny kitten ears
and the tiny kitten nose
and the fuzzy furry kitten
of love."

See
my point
on the lyricism
of Feline Poetry?

[Dedicated
with love
to Maya and Sam]

chewtoypooh

free_agent

taruwip

"A poem about an object which is like me"; as prompted [#10].

This pen,
in the middle of my desk, lying there, useless for the moment
but oh so useful
in life.

This pen of blue and silver,
brings images of mountain peaks,
of cold stunning winters,
of words

Waiting to be written.

Ink flows from it like magic,
and worlds will be created on paper
when I just pick the pen up.

Which will happen.

Any minute now.

This pen,
is cold.

[end. I rock in mysterious ways]

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Entries tagged with poetry

It's been a songy day.

It's my lj and I'll spam if I want to. Poetry exercises.

Witch. Which witch?

Vote. It's your duty.

More Useless Poetry:

Quick poem.

Cavafy

Poetry Corner

There Are Moments

An Ode; it really is about hell and not summer.

vague poetry. which i rarely post.

Ah yes. The ever-dreaded cat-poem.

(no subject)

I don't normally do this. And for a good reason.

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December 2011

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